


Divisor

by orphan_account



Category: True Detective
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, at the very end, just covering all my bases here folks, oh also one slur used against addicts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the back of Rust’s mind, the thought that he ought to have seen this coming much sooner than he did sits like a worm, or a curtain covering something horrifying, or the edge of a cliff before an abyss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divisor

He’s mastered this sort of trick, of letting his thoughts go blurry at the edges. He stays aware enough to go through the motions, but there’s a protection offered by detachment, as long as he doesn’t let his eyes go glassy or lose track of his limbs. He’s had to develop this trick, or otherwise, he reasons to himself, Crash would never go away. Crash isn’t a person all on his own, but he’s a rougher suit of skin than Rust is used to. Sometimes Crash slips over Rust’s field of vision like a filter with the colors just barely off, but that’s how Rust likes it. When he works nowadays, he’s a pilot of his body, not an actor; he watches his own hands scoop up a bag of something pure, or open a ratty pouch to count out bills. He lets off a string of good-natured curses, but it’s only half his voice; the other half speaks harsher than he does.

Rust makes sure to come back to himself at the station, or when climbing into his regular car. But once he’s made it inside the house, with all that dead air around him offering nothing, he can never think of a good enough reason to meet reality head-on. He’s decided it’s better for everyone– yes, even Claire, or perhaps her especially– that he becomes a spectator of the world while he’s at home, that the grief and death and everything they refuse to say to each other slides over his skin like an oil instead of sinking in.

This detachment is probably why, slumped in the armchair in front of the silent, blank TV, he doesn’t hear the keys in the lock, the opening of the door. Outside is quiet, of course, a lovely afternoon in a lovely little neighborhood, so there’s little noise to alert him. It’s only when he hears keys clatter in the bowl on the hall table that he starts, sits up, rubs the corner of one eye. He senses a body entering the room behind him but doesn’t bother to turn around. Claire will speak first anyways.

“Didn’t know you were getting home today.” Right on cue. Her voice is flat– not dead, but purposefully guarded, like something barely noticeable curled tight to her body for protection.

“Mm,” he mumbles, nodding his head, eyelids half lowered. “Thing finished up sooner than we thought. I would have called you from the station, but I figured…” Figured he’d be home soon enough anyways? Figured she wouldn’t really care?

“I already ate, didn’t have any reason to get anything for you really, so…” Her voice is a little apologetic, or at least as apologetic as gets these days. He can feel her watching the back of his head but doesn’t spend too long wondering why she won’t come sit with him.

“That’s fine.” He’s not hungry, but she doesn’t need to know the details. There’s a pause, but neither of them move. Rust can tell Claire’s waiting for him to continue, as if he’d indicated aloud that he wasn’t done speaking. In the background, the fridge kicks on, beginning to hum, and he takes that as his cue. “Hey, I saw Susan at the gas station today when I was filling up. Susan Edmonds. Said she saw you at the clinic a few days ago. You have a checkup?” He suspects his voice is too casual, controlled, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to change it.

“Yeah.” Claire’s voice has grown slightly more distant and Rust can tell she’s turned away from him to kick off her work shoes and head up the stairs.

“Wait, c’mere a sec.”

“Rust, can it wait? I’m really tired, was gonna go lay down.” There’s a new edge to her voice, and Rust feels his heartbeat increase at the sound as if it’s some kind of confirmation.

“Yeah, I bet you are. And no, it can’t.” The edge has found its way to his voice now as well, and a lump lodges itself behind his Adam’s apple. He sits forward in his chair and blinks hard, trying to steady himself.

The silence is nearly painful as Claire, now sock footed, pads her way back onto the living room carpet and comes to sit on the small couch, facing Rust. She brings her knees together, tight in her corduroy pants, and perches on the edge of one cushion, her back ramrod straight.

“What’s ‘I bet you are’ supposed to mean?” It’s barely a question and both of them know it. This is how it is, now, everything a challenge between them. Somewhere in the back of Rust’s mind, the thought that he ought to have seen this coming much sooner than he did sits like a worm, or a curtain covering something horrifying, or the edge of a cliff before an abyss.

“You know what it means.”

“Rust–“

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking try one of your excuses.” If they’d had a fight like this a month or two ago his voice would have shook, but now he spits the words out easily, barely caring that she sucks in a breath at his curse as though she could feel it. “I know Susan, we’ve been to her house, we’ve had conversation over that awful coffee she loves. I know she lives on the west side of town and I know she goes to Women’s Health. So you don’t get to lie to me.”

“My GP suggested I try someone over there, since I wasn’t happy with–“

“I said don’t do this. You tell me the truth. Please.” Rust’s last word hangs heavy in the air, a nicety that floats wrong somehow amid their tension and the tan walls and silent TV. Claire manages to meet his eyes, hands knotted in her lap, lips pressed together like they’re trying to hold back anything she could say right now. “Were you going to tell me? Ever? Was this just another goddamn thing we were gonna sweep under the rug or throw over the back fence–“

“Another thing?” Claire’s blue eyes flash icy now and she sets her teeth in a grimace. “Jesus Christ, Rust, you weren’t supposed to be home. You’re never home! And I’m here, microwaving whatever when I don’t have the goddamn energy, and eating alone, and dragging myself to work, and you’re off… I don’t know! I don’t want know what you do out there, but I can’t believe you have the gall to barge back in to _my_ life and play the victim–“

“Your life?” Rust laughs humorlessly, hollowly, and pushes up his shirtsleeves, something instinctual for him now around conflict. “So I was right, you weren’t ever gonna fucking tell me, because it’s _your_ life, not ours, so you’re the only one who gets to decide what to do with _our_ baby–“ He chokes a little on the last word.

“It was a lump of cells, Rust; don’t you dare call it a baby! You really think we should have done this?” It’s Claire’s turn to laugh now, a crack in her voice. “What, so we’d just start over? Are you volunteering to go buy diapers without wanting to throw up in the middle of the goddamn Costco? Are you going to get yourself back into robbery and start coming home again every night? What do you want from me?” It’s an empty question, one neither of them could answer at this point.

“Was it even mine?” Rust slumps back into his chair as if giving up, but Claire leans forward at his suggestion, her gaze deadly.

“You son of a bitch,” she spits at him. “There is no reason for you to ask that question. But of course you would, because it’s all about your feelings, nothing about how I felt when I realized I was–“ She inhales, unable to speak the last word. “Are you high right now?” She leans back again as Rust sits up and raises his eyes to meet her stare.

“No. Of fucking course not.” It’s the truth, but Claire’s expression makes it feel like a lie. “Look, you don’t know what I do, and I don’t know what you do either, when I’m gone, but what, you want me to give you a contact number? Have my wife calling in the middle of some negotiation–“

Claire stands suddenly, and it’s enough to cut Rust off. She reaches down momentarily to steady herself on the arm of the couch, but her gaze is still fixed on him. She places one hand deliberately on her abdomen and Rust forces himself not to drop his eyes to it.

“No, Rust. I don’t want a phone number. I want a divorce.” There is no shock to the words, nothing unexpected. Somehow, suddenly, the charge in the air between the two has dissipated, as though it were watching and waiting only for this moment, this finale. Rust stands up, his limbs suddenly relaxed, his breathing regular.

“Yeah, sounds good. Sounds right. You just let me know, about the paperwork.” There is no venom to his voice anymore, no hint of a conflict. He thinks he should be angry, angry like he was only moments ago, but it’s as if the color has been drained from everything and there’s no reason to fight it.

He turns, and the whole scene has the feel of a dream. He’s kept his boots on and most of his stuff stays in the car nowadays, so the only thing to grab is his leather jacket, plain black, hanging in the hallway. He’s outside and halfway to his car before the house front door bangs open and Claire stands there, demanding his attention, her white and tan outfit silhouetted by the interior darkness.

“Find a nice long assignment, Rust!” she calls, just loud enough for him to hear. “Something real tricky! I’ll get myself moved out before you come back.”

Claire’s last sentence feels like a punch in the gut to Rust, but it’s one he anticipated somehow, and so he keeps walking, not looking back. By the time he’s slotted the keys into the ignition and brought the car rumbling to life, Claire has retreated back inside.

As he pulls away, he catches an impossible glimpse of her in his rearview mirror, bent over in the middle of the road, raven hair loose and hanging, hiding her expression. She’s holding a pair of tiny hands, steadying them as a small figure just in front of her struggles for balance. It’s gone after he blinks once, and he lets himself accelerate a bit more, as if he could leave behind these visions he’s started having like they’re tied to a place and not to him.

He parks outside of a bar, some hole in the wall, and knows he’ll sleep in his car tonight. His hands have begun to shake and he grits his teeth against his body’s petulance. A few shots will dull that insistence beating at the base of his skull, clamoring for a line. He knows he’ll wake up tomorrow with a cramp in his neck and an ache behind his eyes, but it’s all the better anyways if he looks the part; appropriate for hunting down some junkies with links to a meth lab– no matter if he looks too rough for handling paperwork; he doesn't care what opinions people have of him. He’ll wake with an ache in his gut as well, not hunger, but he’ll tell himself to swallow it like a substance, and he’ll drop cat-like into the swaggering posture of Crash. Crash doesn’t give a shit about clinics or marriage or well-meaning neighbors, and that, thinks Rust, is the only real way to survive in this world.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where the TD fandom sits on the pro-choice/life spectrum on average, but this situation just spoke to me as a sort of final straw for the two of them, the conclusion to their partnership now only made of grief and resentment. We know there's plenty Rust doesn't tell Papania and Gilbough, so I think it's reasonable to assume that he doesn't feel obliged to disclose to them the full extent of his trauma.


End file.
